Wicked Insult
by xxcrazycallyxx
Summary: NEW! Pushing her hair away from her face, he stared at her from behind his silver mask. His grey eyes were cold and lifeless but enticingly beautiful. - NEW! RE-WRITE
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I don't own anything. JKR does.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Scubarang because I love her and her pushy ways!**

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Death.

It was something she had wished for every minute of every day since she had been taken. She wanted to be six foot under, with a small granite headstone letting people know that was her resting place. She wanted people to grieve for her but know she was in a better place. She wanted to see her family and friends again. See how they looked upon the living and join them as they hoped and wished for a better life for the future generation. To her, death would be a sanctuary, away from pain and suffering. Death was a placed to be cleansed and purified, away from the dirt of the world. To her, death would bring new beginnings and adventures.

But she wasn't allowed to die.

She had to withstand pain and torture that was unfit for animals, let alone humans. Trying desperately to keep the tears inside, she gripped onto the stone wall, feeling the sting of her skin breaking and her nails peeling away. She didn't want to fall; she didn't want to bow down to them. She would not bow down to them.

Agony washed through her body and she shuddered, and suddenly the pain was gone and the door to her prison was bolted firmly closed. She was blissfully alone again with only her whimpers to comfort her. She let herself fall into a shivering heap on the cold, damp floor and waited until it was time for her to stand once again to receive the beating she so rightly deserved.

There were no windows in her cell and she couldn't see anything apart from the deep shadows in her mind. This was a hell unto itself. Her mind played tricks on her; she swore she could see pale yellow lights dancing in front of her face. Sometimes she would talk to them, hesitantly at first, but then she would tell them everything. They were her friends, her angels, and they had come to save her from the darkness and take her into the light.

She told the angels about her family and friends. She spoke about the war and how Voldemort had beaten their only hope for a better world, of Harry Potter and how he had been viciously displayed for all to see, floating high in the air, his lifeless body controlled by his murderer's wand. Everyone had stopped fighting. She still remembered the shock that had rippled through the crowd. People werefalling down in grief and weeping in anger at the sight, but the fight had continued with renewed vigour.

She explained how the the Order of the Phoenix fought back with sheer loathing and vengeance whilst the Death Eaters had been ruthless and brutal to such an extent that the battlefield became an ocean of red. People fled the grounds of Hogwarts in terror, retreating from merciless torture and death. Their beliefs and freedom diminished with each anxious step they took as the Death Eaters gained control of their lives.

She admitted to her angels that Voldemort had truly won.

Night after night she spun the familiar tale about life after Harry's death. The new regime was dated; it felt like they had moved a back a few hundred steps in time. Lord Voldemort's views were narrow-minded and selfish. He fed his huge ego and status with new laws and a class system, fully re-instating the pure-blood hierarchy. He was now completely untouchable.

He appointed Lucius Malfoy, the purest of all pure-bloods, as Minister of Magic. The blond wizard was merely a puppet in a world where Lord Voldemort was the puppet master, controlling the strings from above. Malfoy was to be the "face" of the "New Code" and spokesperson for his master, as the ruler in question was still vain enough to know his body and looks repelled the people whose lives he now dictated.

Pure-bloods were treated like royalty, and the new law decreed that they be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy as they were high-class citizens, given the most freedom. Half-bloods, although they were middle-class, could not be discriminated against because of their bloodlines, a selfish law made by Voldemort to benefit himself. The half-bloods had the least changed lifestyle of anyone; some became profitable business witches and wizards by using the class system to their advantage, setting up small boutiques and using their skills to charge an extortionate amount of money for their goods and services.

Muggle-borns, or Mudbloods as they were called, were treated like criminals. They had to go through a string of tests to ensure that their magic was not "stolen" and that their magical abilities were valid and strong enough to compete in the wizarding world. Most Muggle-borns returned back to the non-magic world, signing magical contracts that stated they would have nothing more to do with the wizarding world.

Witches and wizards, although they were free, still lived in fear. The Death Eaters filled the streets, in their black robes emblazoned with silver Dark Marks, making sure nobody broke the rules, keeping a tight rein on anything suspicious.

After three quiet years, Voldemort's little world had been perfect. That was, until she came along to disrupt it all. She started a rebellion, gathering followers and growing stronger every day. They all had one thing in common—determination. She had been a fantastic leader. Strong, fiery, she had the fierce determination of a true warrior.

She remembered vividly the fast duels between her rebels and the small group of Death Eaters Voldemort had sent to capture her. She had been daring, and she knew now that she had pushed the monster too far by sending him an owl one hour after his followers left his compound to notify him that she had taken them hostage. Voldemort was obviously furious that his specially trained Death Eaters had been outsmarted by a blood traitor.

Her face had paled at the sight of an even smaller team of Death Eaters; she knew, deep in her heart, that these men were not like the last group. They were organised, quick, and even more powerful than expected. They were the elite mercenaries she had heard about through passing rumours. These men were ruthless, cold-hearted, and skilled to the highest degree.

She watched, frozen to the ground in horror, as they killed her friends one by one. She didn't put up a fight when she was grabbed from behind; believing it was her time to die, she went willingly. But when the bloodstained gloves of the mercenary grabbed her face and forced her took look as Luna, her best friend, was savagely tortured in front of her, she snapped out of her frozen stupor. She struggled in his steel grip and cried and screamed. She pleaded and begged him to kill her instead; she did not want to watch or hear the suffering of her best friend.

"Shut up or I will make you kill her," he told her viciously.

Taking out his wand he looked her in the eyes as he pointed it directly at Luna. His prisoner continued to plead with him, offering to do anything. He gave her a smirk.

"I can make you do anything I want. So be a good, quiet little witch and watch the show, sweetheart. It's going to be magnificent."

Her voice had gone; he'd silenced her without using his wand or murmuring an incantation. His magic was strong, and as she clutched at his robes, silently begging him, he lowered his head so that his breath whispered against her neck, causing her to close her eyes as unwanted chills ran down her spine. He Apparated her away as soon as Luna's last howl of pain died into soft whimpers.

When they Disapparated, he lifted her up into his arms; she could feel his strength as he held her tight against his chest. She continued to clutch at his robes, soft cries for help breathlessly leaving her lips as pain and anguish curdled within her.

The Death Eater stopped walking when he reached the entrance to a dark room. He carefully pried her hands from his bloody robes and gently pushed her down onto a cold stone bench.

Pushing her hair away from her face, he stared at her from behind his silver mask. His grey eyes were cold and lifeless but enticingly beautiful. Unaware of what she was doing, she raised her hand to touch his mask, causing him to jerk backwards and let go of her face.

Giving her one last glimpse of those disturbingly striking eyes, he left her in darkness, left her to succumb to the black obscurity that was now her home. At the beginning they had brought her food and warm water to wash away the mud and the blood. But she refused to eat, determined not to give them a chance to kill her. She would die her own way; she would not submit to their commands.

She had no family and no friends. She was alone.

But Ginny Weasley still had her pride.

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A/N - Okay...*crosses fingers* I hope you guys liked the beginning of the new improved Wicked Insult. In the next few chapters you will probably notice bits of the story stays the same and others drastically change. Hopefully you will enjoy re-reading this and I would be ever so pleased if you could review to let me know if you do like it...or hate it!

Big thanks to Mamacita my beta. She's wonderful!


	2. Chapter 2

**I would like to wish an early Happy Birthday to Scubarang! You are one hot Slyth. Enjoy. x**

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Voldemort sat in his throne-like chair. With his fingers tapping against the wood of the armrest, he stared disdainfully at the men who grovelled at his feet, snivelling and cried like children and begging for mercy. He was used to these weak-willed fools who did his bidding, and he knew how to squeeze every drop of fear from their pitiful bodies. They had disobeyed his orders that had been given in no uncertain terms: on no account was Ginevra Weasley to be harmed. Only, when he sent Wormtail to make sure everything was in order, the twitchy little man had come back with the most disturbing news about torture and starvation. The young girl was battered and bruised; the pure, creamy skin of her arms had raw red welts all over due to a Cutting Curse; and they had punched her in the face and stomach, causing her to be crippled with pain. They had ripped at her clothes and used her body, as she was chained to the cell wall, as if she was a common whore. Her fingers were all bloody and her nails had been ripped away from the skin as she clawed at the walls.

Ginevra had always been his soft spot since she'd found his diary in her second year. She had been so pure and innocent; not one ounce of evil lay within her mind. He admired her pride and strength. But due to the idiots before him, her innocence and air of naivete had vanished. She was corrupted, a shell of her former self.

She had been kept in the cell where his mercenary, one of his elite members, had left her, and the guards had been given orders to allow her to wash up whenever she wanted and give her three solid meals a day. No one was to touch her; a restraining spell was advised in the event she should give them any trouble. He wanted to teach her the new ways; she was to become a valuable asset to his new regime. Voldemort had expected his loyal servants to obey him and understand that he not only wanted but needed Ginevra Weasley alive and healthy.

But this pair of Death Eaters were young, hopeless, and power-hungry; and now, with a flick of Voldemort's wand and a flash of luminous green, they were dead. They were of no use to him if they disobeyed him. He could get more and better Death Eaters; loyal Death Eaters.

Voldemort stared down at the lifeless bodies and felt no remorse, only anger. These men had jeopardised his life by harming the girl. If she died, he would die. His most notorious and dangerous mercenary would be able to kill him without even stopping to blink. Voldemort had started training this young man as soon as the boy had turned sixteen, his best student by far. Voldemort trained with this particular student until the young man was so highly skilled in Legilimency and Occlumency that even Voldemort could not read him. Voldemort had been amazed the day he was defeated, shocked by the boy's power and by the fact that he had been outwitted in his master skill by his own student. He should have been more careful.

The Hall's large door opened and footsteps clicked against the cold white marble in a steady pace all the way to his throne. Looking up, Voldemort met the ice-blue eyes of Narcissa Malfoy.

Narcissa was a beautiful woman and didn't look a day over forty, with her long, shiny blond hair bouncing with every step she took and her pale alabaster skin that glowed in the candlelight. Lucius Malfoy was a lucky man. Narcissa was a major factor in his success with the new regime; she controlled the Malfoy Estate along with Voldemort's compound, known as The Hall. Narcissa made sure the house-elves did their work, dealt with meetings and press conferences, and disbursed money to various charities and organizations in the name of Lord Voldemort. She arranged balls and galas for the H.S.P.A (High Society Pure-blood Association); she even organized parades and fairs for the middle classes to attend. The public adored her and listened to what she had to say, therefore she was another great asset in Voldemort's control of the wizarding population.

Narcissa stopped a yard away from the dead bodies, not even bothering to look at them. She kept her head high and her eyes on a point just above Voldemort's shoulder. Smoothing down her flowing blue dress, she addressed him with a small curtsy befitting her station. She was a traditional pure-blood through and through, and, although she held a regal air of indifference towards him, she knew her manners and she knew who was in charge.

"Well?" Voldemort's voice hissed throughout the large Hall.

Narcissa's eyes snapped to his and she glared at him. She was not afraid of this monster, as she had been five years ago. She could see the signs of his frailty that grew daily; he was weaker than ever. Eyeing him coldly, she sniffed in her superior manner.

"She is now clean and dressed in fresh clothes. I have tried to make her eat, but she refuses everything I give her. She is terrified and stays curled up on the bed. I have put a Nourishment Charm on her, which will maintain her at her current weight, but she really needs to eat. She's lost too much weight as it is. I've tried my best with the bruising and cuts, but since they've been there for a couple of days they'll have to heal naturally, unless you let me summon a Healer for her. There is only so much I can do, my lord. She has been...abused. She desperately needs professional care." Narcissa took a breath and waited for Voldemort's response to her update.

Voldemort sat in silence; he glanced down at the dead men, staring into their wide, lifeless eyes. For the second time in his life he was frightened. The last time he'd experienced this novel feeling was when Harry Potter had been alive, but he'd managed to defeat Potter. Could he defeat his own student, his most loyal, ruthless, and dangerous mercenary? He knew his chances were slim, especially now that the mercenary had found a way to kill someone using only his mind; as long as he was touching his victims, he could reduce their minds to nothing, effectively killing them. Yes, Lord Voldemort was terrified.

Sensing that he wasn't about to speak, Narcissa hesitated slightly. "He will not be happy about this," she whispered, unsure whether she had crossed the line.

Voldemort looked at the pale woman in front of him. _He_ looked so much like her. It was true that he was the mirror image of his father, but his facial expressions were not unlike his mother's. And his blond hair was more golden, like Narcissa's, than the harsh white-blond of his father. She was an angel, and _he_ the devil.

"He won't have to find out," Voldemort hissed. "I have given him a mission, and I do not expect him back for another two weeks."

"He is the best. You know he can do this with a snap of his fingers. I estimate he'll be home before the week is over. You know he will be!" Narcissa snapped harshly.

It was true—what she was saying was very true—but Voldemort didn't want to admit it. He was in more danger than he'd thought. The girl had to look healthy and well by the time _he_ came back, and they only had a few days, if that. This particular mission was a tedious affair. A Russian general had threatened to kill Lord Voldemort. It was an empty threat; the general's army only amounted to thirty fully trained wizards and witches and ten Hippogriffs. Pathetic, but they had to be taken care of. Voldemort had given his elite team three weeks to kill them all, but he knew they would be home sooner.

Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "You will have a Healer. Make sure not a scratch is left on her. Get her to eat and give her a calming potion, something to mask her fear. I want all signs of torture to have disappeared by the time he comes home."

Nodding in agreement, Narcissa once again gave him a small curtsy, then spun on her heel and floated out the room. Her blue dress flowing out behind her reminded Voldemort of a calm, peaceful ocean.

Waiting until the door of The Hall closed with a thud, he gestured to a Death Eater who waited silently in the corner, and nodded at the corpses.

"Get them out of my sight. Inform their families of the unfortunate circumstances. If they have no families…dispose of the bodies," Voldemort ordered. "I don't care how."

The Death Eater walked around the two dead men. Pointing his wand, he used an Accio charm to summon the little silver ID badges (which gave the name, address, rank, and emergency contact information) from each man's pocket. Every Death Eater was given an ID badge along with the Dark Mark upon their initiation. After reading the details on the badges he held, the Death Eater levitated both bodies and headed out of The Hall.

Deep in thought, Voldemort didn't even bother to look up when a door on the right side of The Hall opened. He heard footsteps scurry across the floor, and a brown rat stopped in front of his throne exactly where the two dead Death Eaters had lain just seconds before. He watched as the rat grew larger, its claws changing into hands and feet and the tail shrinking away to nothing.

"M-m-master! He h-has returned!" Wormtail squeaked.

"Don't be foolish. I only sent him away this—"

Voldemort's sentence was cut off as the large oak doors were flung open to reveal a furious Draco Malfoy. Voldemort froze as he stared into those cold grey eyes that struck through him like a shard of ice splintering inside his mind. He desperately tried not to show the agony he was currently suffering at the hands of one of his Death Eaters at just a mere look into his eyes.

Draco Malfoy was furious. He had just returned from another pointless mission concerning yet another power-hungry lunatic. It didn't help that the bloody mission had been in Russia, and Russia in October was bloody cold, 4ºC to be exact. Personally, Draco wished that his desire to be Voldemort's favourite mercenary, to keep the façade of obedience alive, outweighed his tremendous hatred of the cold. But he needed to keep Voldemort happy, make him think his favourite mercenary obeyed every bloody order he was given, even if it was pointless beyond reason.

When he finally Apparated into The Hall, he went straight down to the state-of-the-art, high-security cell in which he'd left his prisoner. She wasn't much of a threat—he had her wand and she was only a pint-sized little thing—but these cells were safer for her, away from the other scum who were kept in the disgusting, over-crowded cells near the front. People died in those cells, from disease mostly, and he didn't want his little redheaded witch dead.

He passed the guard-less gate, which was open. That in itself was most peculiar; there was normally one guard at the gates to open and close them with a set of special keys. Draco demanded that two guards be on duty at all times while his prisoner stayed in the cell; they, too, were nowhere to be seen. He walked down to the end cell and looked through the bars, only to find she wasn't there.

"Where the bloody hell is she?" He asked himself out loud.

Storming out of the cell block, Draco went to the main holding area, where he was bound to find at least one Death Eater skulking about, pretending to work. He grabbed the first person he could find and demanded to know where the prisoner was being kept, but the man couldn't tell him anything. The poor bastard even pissed himself in fear at the sight of him, Voldemort's favourite mercenary, covered in blood.

Maybe he had been a bit harsh with the Russian general, Draco supposed as he dropped the Death Eater into the puddle of his own urine and glanced down at his robes. The blood was still wet, causing the robes to stick to his skin. He had taken his frustrations out by torturing the Russian to the point where Blaise had finally intervened and killed the general with a simple Killing Curse.

After interrogating every Death Eater he could find, Draco concluded that no one knew anything about his little captive. He searched their minds, intruding into their most private thoughts to confirm they were not lying to him; of course he knew nobody would dare to try and lie, but it felt good to rip into a few of their memories. Leaving the last Death Eater in a heap on the floor, Draco, shaking with anger, headed for The Hall to get the answers he desired.

He slammed the door open and stood in the entrance, the light that glowed behind him illuminating his figure in a golden silhouette. He looked almost invincible and even more dangerous than usual as he slowly walked to where Lord Voldemort sat stiffly on his throne.

Draco took in his surroundings, assessing the situation as he walked and deciding his moves carefully, like the true Slytherin mercenary he was. A few Death Eaters stood tight against the dark blue wallpaper in the corners, trying to disappear into the shadows. He didn't worry about them; he was far more experienced than any of the men in the room. Nothing scared him and nothing worried him; nothing had ever dared to.

His polished black dragonskin boots clicked against the white and grey-veined marble flooring. The door closing behind him made the room slightly darker; only a few sconces dotted along the walls had been lit. Running a hand through his short blond hair, a habit of his when he was angry, he stopped in front of Voldemort, staring him in the eye.

"Where is she?" Draco demanded, his voice echoing in the near-empty hall. He was satisfied when Voldemort winced slightly at the harshness of his tone. The Dark Lord looked almost uncomfortable under Draco's gaze. His eyes darted around the room, checking that every Death Eater stayed in their positions in the shadows. Draco had counted them as soon as he entered the Hall: there were five altogether. Lord Voldemort seemed to think he was still immortal. Five Death Eaters to protect a lord that hundreds of wizards and witches around the globe were trying to kill? He was either extremely vain or extremely pathetic.

Draco had always thought Voldemort had stupid ideas when it came to staying alive. Seriously—Horcruxes? What kind of power-hungry idiot would think of splitting his soul and trusting inanimate objects and a bloody snake to keep him alive? Draco nearly chuckled at the idiocy of it all. But the truth was Harry Potter had successfully rid the world of those Horcuxes, even that stupid snake. Voldemort would die as he was now, a mere mortal like the rest of his followers.

Voldemort shifted under Draco's gaze, trying hard not to stare into those grey eyes that were so dark with anger they looked almost black. He didn't want Draco to use Legilimency on him.

"The guards disobeyed me. They are dead now," Voldemort, said trying to act casual with a dismissive wave of his hand. He tried to brush off the fact that Ginevra was mostly likely in pain, both inside and out.

"Where is she?" Draco demanded again, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Your mother has been looking after her. I believe she is being kept in one of the guest rooms at Malfoy Manor." Voldemort signalled to the closest Death Eater. "Get me Narcissa Malfoy."

Both Draco Malfoy and Lord Voldemort watched as the Death Eater ran out of the room at full speed. _At least these men do what they're told_, Draco thought as he waved his wand and conjured up a plush green armchair. Tucking his wand back into his robes, he lounged casually in the chair, throwing his legs gracefully over one of the armrests.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened to _my_ prisoner?" Draco asked, sounding like he was enquiring about the weather. His smile did not quite reach his eyes.

Dodging Draco's direct gaze once again, Voldemort carefully assessed the young man in front of him. He was tall, his long legs lazily swaying back and forward in a relaxed and casual manner, and his short blond hair was in messy spikes from brushing his hand through it one too many times. He looked like what a high-society man should look like, with expensive robes and top-of-the-range dragonskin boots. To look at him, no one would imagine this young man was one of the most dangerous wizards alive. It amazed Voldemort how looks could be so deceiving. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least. He eyed Draco's robes more closely; they looked damp and they stuck to his body like a second skin.

"The guards were foolish young men. The young Miss Weasley has an extremely fiery temper; she attacked the men at every possible opportunity. They were blinded by their anger at her actions and didn't think to restrain her with a simple spell. They retaliated with more force than necessary." Voldemort spoke calmly but kept a tight grip on his wand. "I see you were successful in your mission." He kept his eyes on Draco's bloodstained robes.

Draco followed his gaze. "Obviously."

Draco looked at Voldemort like he was an ugly insect he'd never seen before; an expression of mild curiosity with a hint of disgust played across his face. It took all his willpower not to whip out his wand and kill the ugly old snake-man with a simple flick. Draco waited calmly for his mother to turn up. She was taking her sweet bloody time. _Probably busy fixing her hair or some such rot. Speak of the devil_….

Looking up, he watched as Narcissa entered The Hall for the second time that day and walked confidently up to Voldemort. At the last second she turned to her son, who was now standing, and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug. As Draco hugged his mother back he snorted to himself; her hair was perfect. Narcissa suddenly broke their embrace, making him stumble backwards slightly. This time she didn't even bother to address Voldemort but spoke directly to her son.

"You're covered in blood," Narcissa gasped and touched her son's stomach delicately, afraid she would hurt him.

"Not mine. Where is she?" Draco bit out with unintentional force, pushing his mother's hand away.

"She's all right, Draco." Narcissa softly placed a hand on his shoulder. "A Healer has cleaned her up…she had been violated in a way no woman should ever be. She's finding it hard to trust anyone after this debacle; it took me an hour to coax her out of the bathroom to let the Healer have a look at her."

"Where is she?" Draco asked once again, with a slight frown on his face. She shouldn't have been treated like that; he needed to apologize for having left her there. Draco needed to see her…she was _his_. And when he said _his_, he meant as in his prisoner, but he had this inexplicable urge to kill for her, to protect her from the world's dangers.

"I've placed her in the Golden Suite for the moment. Draco, promise me you won't go in there," Narcissa said sternly, almost reminding him of his old bat of a Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall. "I don't think it would be appropriate, considering her circumstances."

Immediately ignoring his mother's wishes, Draco left The Hall, forgetting all about Voldemort and the stupid bowing and kissing-of-the-robes thing he liked every Death Eater to do. He wasn't a bloody suck-up like his father—well, not any more. Voldemort should be kissing _his_ fucking robes, instead!

Apparating into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, Draco threw his travelling robe at one of the house-elves who scurried in from some unknown place to assist the Young Master. Storming up the entrance staircase, he turned into the first-floor corridor and ran down to his own bedroom door. The room where Ginny was, the Golden Suite, was just across the corridor. What was his mother thinking, putting them in such close proximity if he wasn't allowed to see her? Narcissa could be a bitch at times.

Disregarding what she had told him, Draco stepped up to the door of the Golden Suite. He leaned his head against the dark wood, listening for any sign of its inhabitant, and heard what sounded like crying. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the silver knob, but before he could turn the handle his hand started to burn. He snatched it away and looked down to see a red scald mark glowing like a beacon against his pale skin. Yeah, his mother was a bitch, all right.

Cursing under his breath, Draco headed for the lounge. He needed a strong drink. Deciding to take a shortcut, he stepped up to the painting of one of his great-great-great-great-uncles. Ignoring the man, who was prancing about on a horse, he moved the picture aside and walked down a damp staircase that was concealed behind it. Sconces magically lit in sequence as he descended each step.

When he finally reached his destination, he quickly glanced around the cosy room and saw that he was alone. Good. He didn't need company when he was about to get stone-cold drunk. He poured himself a Firewhisky in a fancy crystal glass and drank it in one gulp. He slammed the glass against the hard oak bartop and it shattered in his hand. He watched as little beads of blood welled from the tiny cuts dotting his hand. No sting of pain came, but he knew it would. Draco grabbed the bottle of Firewhisky and sat down in one of the uncomfortable blue chairs his mother seemed to like; she claimed they were "chic" and "all the rage", and they'd probably cost his father a fortune.

He'd drunk almost half the bottle by the time his father came home. Lucius' personal house-elf, Bertie, popped into the lounge. "Master requires Young Master in his study right away!" the thing squeaked.

Rolling his eyes at the unfortunate creature, Draco replied, "Tell him to bugger off." he took another swig from the bottle and watched as the elf left the room, looking utterly offended. An image of Lucius' face when the elf informed him of what "Young Master" had said popped into Draco's head. Laughing, he gulped down the last of the Firewhisky and fell into a deep slumber, dreaming of red hair and sparkling brown eyes.

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_A/N - HAPPY NEW YEAR! Please do me the honor of reviewing! You never you know, you might even get a mention...*squints eyes at Scubarang* (See! I told you I would have this up for your birthday! u_u)_


	3. Chapter 3

Lucius heaved a sigh of frustration as he sauntered into the cosy lounge and caught sight of his drunken son sprawled across one of the uncomfortable blue chairs Narcissa had paid a ghastly amount of money for. Gripping his cane, Lucius poked Draco in the side with the blunt end. Not even an eyelash fluttered as he prodded again, slightly harder this time. Draco had always been a deep sleeper; on more than one occasion when he was younger, Narcissa had had to double check to make sure he was still breathing.

Giving up his attempt to wake his son, Lucius leant his cane up against the wall. Crouching down onto his knees so he was at eye level with Draco's head, he loosened the bottle of fifteen-year-old single-malt Firewhisky from the young man's grip. His son was a smart man, but when it came to drinking, he'd always been a bit dense. A liquor of this calibre ought to be left to the professionals, to be drunk slowly and in small quantities; in this case, less was definitely more.

Lucius straightened himself out, his aging bones giving a little groan as he rose to his full height. He placed the empty bottle next to the shards of broken crystal on the bartop, which still hadn't been cleaned up from the night before.

"Bertie!" A loud _crack!_ sounded in the room. Lucius glanced over to see that his son was still sound asleep. Turning to the elf, the Malfoy patriarch ordered the little creature to clean up the mess, then bring him black coffee and a sobering potion straight away. He watched as the elf cleaned the bar with a single snap of his fingers, then disappeared with another resounding _crack!_

Lucius sat down in the armchair directly across from where Draco was peacefully sleeping and tried resignedly to get comfortable. Narcissa must have gone daft the day she bought these chairs; either that or she had no feeling in her backside. He huffed to himself, and wriggled a cushion underneath his buttocks to give him some padding. Bertie shuffled into the room, followed closely by a tea tray that floated behind him. The elf placed the tray gently on the coffee table and then he quietly departed, leaving Lucius alone with his son once again.

Lucius procured his wand from his expensive forest-green robes and placed a Sonorus Charm on himself. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed, "DRACO!"

Draco jerked awake; his sudden movement made him fall off his chair and land with his face squashed into the cream-coloured carpet. Using both hands, he quickly pushed himself up and onto his feet and dusted off his robes as if nothing had happened.

Smirking at his son, Lucius indicated the steaming mug of coffee and a little blue bottle filled with a lumpy potion; it didn't look very appetizing, but he would be thankful for it. Draco snatched up the Sobering Potion and swallowed it quickly, then proceeded to drink his coffee with the same vigour. "How long have you been sitting there?"

"Ten minutes or so. I have urgent issues to discuss, such as that the Dark Lord is most displeased with you—your little debacle in Russia—and perhaps you can explain to me why the delectable Miss Weasley is now in our care?" Lucius roared the last part, making his son cringe slightly.

"Care to keep your voice down? You're doing nothing to help my hangover," Draco replied calmly, infuriating his father even more. He placed his now-empty mug on the table and surveyed Lucius. The older man was dressed in designer robes of forest green, and his boots were polished to a high shine. Every Saturday Lucius took Narcissa to a fancy restaurant for lunch, then spent the whole day shopping, hence the reason for his immaculate turn-out.

"Firstly, the decrepit old snake _you_ like to call 'master' can bugger off. I don't give a shit what he thinks of me. Secondly, the Russian bastard had it coming; I was given orders and I completed them. I can't help it if the general's son-in-law was the Russian Minister of Magic. I do Voldemort's dirty work, so take it up with him." Draco took a deep breath.

"You tortured the man, Draco. He was so disfigured they were unable to recognise him or let the Minister and his wife see the body. You could have simply ended it easily enough, but Blaise had to do that for you because you were enjoying yourself far too much," Lucius said slowly. He would have to try to remain calm or he would never get any answers from Draco.

"Thirdly, she is mine—my prisoner—and I will do whatever the fuck I want with her. I've waited too long for this." Draco's head was in his hands by the time he had finished speaking.

"What do you mean by 'waited too long'?" Lucius shifted in his seat, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the way this conversation was going.

Draco frowned. "I have this thing—I suppose you could call it an obsession—for her. It started years ago, when I was fifteen. Remember that whole Umbridge thing?"

Looking up to see his father's nod, Draco went back to staring at the floor. "Well, Weasley, she ended up duelling me and she beat me by using a Bat-Bogey Hex, of all things." He laughed almost fondly at the memory. "She was beautiful. I'd never seen anything like it. She moved like a lioness, eyeing up her prey, then pouncing at the last moment. Her eyes sparkled and her face was set with a determination that made her look hot and feisty. I stopped for just a second; it was like I was in a trance, seeing her in a new light. Then she bloody hexed me!"

Lucius coughed slightly when Draco stared off at some mental image, a small smile gracing his face. Lucius knew his son was reliving that day in his head. Lucius himself had done it often enough when he thought about the first time he'd met Narcissa in the ballroom of Black Mansion.

Coming back to the moment, Draco looked over at his father. "After that day I was hooked on her. Every time I saw a flash of red I would search for her. I'd stare at her for hours in the Library. She would sit in the same spot—the desk in between the Charms and Herbology sections. Those were her favourite subjects. I just watched her. She caught me looking many times, and when she did I used to just raise an eyebrow and the little minx would copy me, grin, then turn away. It became our little thing—if she saw me in the corridor she'd stick her tongue out, then laugh at me when I gave her a rude hand gesture Mother would never approve of." Grinning, Draco raised himself off the chair and started pacing back and forth.

"We never spoke until the Battle of Hogwarts. We were both in the main staircase corridor, running in from different directions, and bumped into each other. I grabbed hold of her before she could fall and she gave me a kiss on the cheek and ran off shouting, 'Thanks!' I was in shock. I watched her run down the staircase and into the battle, to start a duel with Bellatrix, of all people. I'd never felt like I belonged anywhere until I was holding her. It just felt…right. I felt like I was in the right place for once in my life." Turning to his father, Draco waited for the older man's response.

The British Minister of Magic rubbed a hand over his handsome features as he took a good look at his son. "So you're in love with this girl?" he enquired lightly. The question was rhetorical; Lucius knew very well Draco was in love with Ginevra Weasley.

Draco frowned at this. "No, it's not love. I just want her safe. I just _want_ her. Hell, I watch you and Mum and I don't think I could love someone like that! I'm a murderer, Dad. I don't know what it's like to feel such a strong emotion as love. I don't feel anything."

Lucius watched in dismay as his son walked gracefully out of the lounge. Never in his fifty years of living had he heard any man, let alone his son, talk like that about anyone before. So much love, and his son couldn't even feel it. The sound of Draco's voice, so hollow and emotionless, had chilled him to the bone when Draco said he couldn't feel. Could his son's work for the Dark Lord be turning him into a monster, just like his master? Shuddering at the thought, Lucius left the cosy room, the door snapping shut behind him.

————

Draco just wanted to sleep. He wanted to curl up in his king-size bed and stay under his soft, warm green sheets for days because he was feeling so lethargic. He always felt this way after a mission, and the hangover didn't help. He looked up to see his mother step into the corridor a few doors ahead. Popping her head back into the Golden Suite, she spoke to its single occupant.

"I won't be long, Ginevra. Put those clothes on; they might be a little bit big for you, but I'm sure they'll do just fine for going shopping; then we can buy you a brand new wardrobe." Smiling, she left the room, heading in the opposite direction from Draco. She didn't notice her son just a few metres away from Ginevra's door, which was still slightly ajar.

As soon as his mother was out of sight, Draco moved quickly and quietly to the open door. He leaned his head into the room but couldn't see anything except a small pine chest of drawers and the corner of what he knew was a king-size bed. He leaned further into the room, the door opening further, silently, with every little step he took. He could now see the whole bed, which was covered in golden silk sheets. Dark gold curtains framed the large window, which had views of the small lake and the rose gardens. The walls were painted in a creamy pale yellow, and underfoot was a pine floor, with thick rugs the colour of buttermilk dotted about. The room was very elegant and feminine; his mother had chosen well. Ginevra deserved to have luxuries lavished on her and to be kept in comfort; this was the best room for her.

He stepped fully into the deserted room and glanced around to the closed bathroom door. He could hear the shower running and a faint humming coming from within. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took an oblong box out of his robes. He opened it up and gazed down at the wand—her wand—which was encased in white velvet. When he heard the shower shut off, he shut the case and placed it on the bedside table. The bathroom door opened and his little redhead stepped into the room tugging on the zip of her brown knee-length skirt. Her cream silk shirt was unbuttoned, showing off her plain white cotton bra, which barely held her ample breasts. Draco noticed with narrowed eyes that there were red scratches slashed across them, and bruises on her stomach were fading to a bluish-yellow tinge. Her hair fell around her face like a veil as she watched her own hands struggle to move the zip upwards. Huffing in frustration, she stopped what she was doing and started to button her shirt instead. "At least the bloody shirt is being cooperative," she sighed.

It felt like a million electric shocks shot through his body at the sound of her voice. He stood up abruptly and knocked the wand case off the table and onto the floor in between the bedside table and the bed.

Ginny glanced up from her task and stared in shock at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in her room. Her face paled and her eyes widened, her mouth shaping into a little O. Draco quickly walked up to the frozen young woman and grabbed her by the shoulders. He kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her open mouth, savouring the taste of mint and a slight unknown sweetness which made him want to rip her clothes to shreds, throw her on the bed, and lick her until she screamed his name.

Ginny, on the other hand, had a different idea about what he wanted and bit down on his tongue and pushed him away. She let out a blood-curdling scream and started to slap, hit, punch, and kick every part of his body she could reach. He grabbed her arms and forcefully thrust them behind her. He shoved his other hand over her mouth to muffle her screams and leant his head forward so his lips touched her ear.

"Stop screaming," he demanded softly, his voice a deep growl, "and I will let you go."

She nodded her head in cooperation, desperate to do anything to stop him touching her. As soon as he let go her arms she moved backwards and slumped against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes.

He rolled his eyes at her. "I won't touch you again."

"You're sick," she whispered softly. "You're disgusting. I don't want you here. I was promised I would be allowed to leave."

"You will not leave this room," Draco said harshly but she didn't take any notice. She continued to cry and whisper to herself. Growling in frustration he marched towards her again and grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Will you snap out of it?"

Instead of shutting her up, that made things worse and she let out another blood-curdling scream. Lucius and Narcissa ran into the room, wands drawn and ready to fight, only to stop short at the sight of Draco trying to get the screaming redhead to calm down. Narcissa ran forward and grabbed hold of Ginevra's arm and yanked her away from Draco. Only then did the three Malfoys notice the tears streaming down Ginny's freckled cheeks. Narcissa pulled the youngest Weasley into a motherly embrace, tender and gentle.

"Draco, explain to me why you are in Miss Weasley's room when your mother gave you strict instructions for you not—and I stress the word _not_—to go anywhere near her!" Lucius thundered, pointing his wand at his son.

Draco completely ignored the wand in his face and stared contemptuously at his father, who was looking back at him in just the same manner.

"I made a foolish mistake. I didn't mean her any harm." Draco watched as Ginny continued to cry in his mother's embrace.

"You've gone too far, boy!" shouted Lucius. "You are turning into a crazed man because of your obsession with this girl. You enter her room uninvited and reduce her to tears? Draco, the Dark Lord has called you three times today! Your arm must be in excruciating pain!"

Draco glanced down at the Dark Mark branded on his left arm. It was jet-black against his skin, but he didn't feel any pain. "I don't feel anything," he whispered so softly that Lucius almost didn't catch it. "Voldemort is not my master. I won't be treated like a slave! I am not inferior to him; I'm a pure-blood! I am more worthy than the Dark Lord!" he screamed at his father.

"How dare you talk in such a way about the Dark Lord?" Lucius spat. "He is to be treated with respect!"

Draco ran a hand through his hair and sneered, "Oh, Father, you're so far up your Dark Lord's arse it's a wonder you can still bloody see sunlight!"

Lucius raised his wand and a blue burst of light shot out of it. "Enough!"

Draco dodged the curse and whipped out his own wand. He retaliated with a flare of white light aimed straight at his father's chest, only for the hit to be repelled with a flick of his father's hand.

Narcissa held Ginny tight against the wall and watched as her husband and son duelled. They had done this before, both stubborn and head-strong. Their arguments usually ended up in duelling. Whoever won always gloated, and the other would sulk for weeks on end. Narcissa could do nothing but watch as the bursts of different coloured light emitted from their wands. Thank Merlin none of the curses were too dangerous. Glancing down at her charge, she saw that Ginny's brown eyes were wide with horror. The younger woman let out a strangled grasp as Draco went flying across the room and smacked into the wall. "I-I-I don't want them to kill each other. I don't to see any more. I want to go home. I don't want to be here any more."

The two women watched as Draco stood up and bellowed an unrecognisable spell. Narcissa hoped it wasn't Dark magic. Everything went quiet and the sparks died down; they could now see Draco smirking and now holding two wands in his hand.

"Well, well, Father. Looks like I win!" His voice was loud and his expression triumphant. He threw Lucius' wand back to him.

Ginny watched fearfully as Draco used his wand to repair the chair. He aimed a cold look in her direction when he felt her stare, but she refused to back down. He'd brought her here for a reason, and she intended to find out for herself what that reason was. She and Narcissa watched him walk out the room without much as one word to them. Once Draco left the room, Narcissa rushed over to her husband. Blushing slightly, the young Gryffindor looked on curiously as Narcissa fussed over him.

"He's going to be insufferable to live with for the next week or two," growled Lucius, trying to escape from his wife's hand which held his head in place as she checked for injuries.

"Oh, you poor thing! Go on up to your room. I need to see that everything is in working order. I'll be up in a moment." Narcissa pushed him gently in the direction of the door and, giving his shoulder a tender squeeze and kissing him on the neck, she urged him out of the room and shut the door before you could say "Quidditch".

Ginny took a good look around the room and saw that nothing had been damaged apart from the chair Draco had repaired. Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the bed. Narcissa took a seat next to her.

"I'm sorry, Ginevra. I am supposed to be taking care of you, but I'm failing. I was never any good at being a mother. Just take a look at my son," Narcissa said, a faint hint of humour in her voice that didn't reach her eyes.

Ginny leaned against Narcissa as the older woman placed an arm round her shoulders. She whispered, "Why are you doing all this? Why do I have to stay here?"

Narcissa had been so nice to her for the three days she'd stayed at Malfoy Manor. When the two Death Eaters had Apparated her into the entrance hall, Ginny was sure she was being taken to Voldemort to be killed and had almost welcomed the thought. Then Narcissa had entered the hall with a stern look on her face and snapped at the Death Eaters, making the big men cower in fear as she berated them for "man-handling" her "guest". Ginny, feeling confused and a little disoriented at the time, was guided uncomplaining up to her room by Narcissa. The older woman went on to prepare a bath and fresh clothes for Ginny; her voice was calm and soothing, and she was extremely gentle and patient when she tried to get Ginny to eat.

Ginny was very thankful for the care and companionship, but she wanted to know why she was there. Why were they going to all this trouble to keep her alive?

Narcissa's reply was simple. "We need you." With a smile, she left the room.

* * *

_A/N - Sorry for the wait guys. Computer troubles are the worst *pouts*. Please review! Thanks. x_


	4. Chapter 4

_Strong, calloused hands caressed the soft skin on her neck. His touch was tender, his skin scorching. She felt like she was melting with each little stroke. She felt his warm breath tickle her throat as his hands moved down to her shoulders, tracing her collarbone with feather-light touches. Her sigh seemed to echo through the room as his husky voice next to her ear told her she was beautiful, she was gorgeous, she was his. _

_His lips attached to hers, softly kissing her and gently moving over hers. She opened her mouth and moaned when his tongue came in contact with her own and he kissed her deeply, tasting her sweetness. His tongue continued to explore her mouth as one of his hands curled into her fiery mane and the other moved slowly down to her breast. He touched the soft mound encased in green lace and rubbed his thumb over her sensitive nipple, the sensation making her gasp with pleasure. Removing his mouth from hers, he moved slowly down her body, placing butterfly kisses in the valley between her breasts. Her moans were the only sound in the room._

_His fingers slowly drew little patterns over her stomach. Feeling the slight bump, he moved so his face was level with her swollen abdomen. She felt his mouth curve into a smile as he continued to kiss and lick her. His hand travelled down to the scrap of green lace she wore especially for him. A finger slid past the lace, and..._

Gasping for air, Ginny jerked awake to find that she was clutching the bed sheets that covered her stomach. With a quick glance at her surroundings she saw that she was still alone. Sighing with relief, she slowly unclenched her fingers and smoothed out the fabric; it had been just a dream.

She moved her legs slowly and gently over the side of the bed as the bruises on her body still ached, sucking in a sharp breath when her feet touched the cold wooden flooring. She looked over at the fire to see it was still giving off a faint reddish glow. Standing up, she made her way to the bathroom, squinting her eyes slightly at the sudden brightness as the sconces automatically burst into life when she entered. Gingerly stepping up to the mirror, she gazed at her reflection. Her skin was white as a sheet and her hair was plastered against the damp skin on her forehead, making her look almost ill. But what shocked her the most were her eyes. They were no longer the chocolate brown eyes holding a spark of mischief that she used to see. They were a dull brown; it was almost like she was slowly fading away.

Her dreams were becoming more vivid, and every night they went on a little while longer before she woke up in a pool of sweat. Since arriving at Malfoy Manor she had been plagued with that same dream, but not once had she gotten to see the face of the man who was being so tender and loving. Although she wished every day that he would appear, he never came.

Glancing down, she rubbed her hand over her abdomen. It had felt so real; she had felt the baby inside of her moving towards the heat of _his_ hand. He'd told her that he loved her and the baby; he said he was glad she was his and only his. What did the dream mean? Was it just her imagination running wild? She wasn't a seer, and there wasn't any record of seer blood in the Weasley or Prewitt families, so it couldn't have been a vision.

After Narcissa left her alone in her room, Ginny thought long and hard about what the older woman had told her. They needed her. What could the Malfoys possibly need her for? She was a traitor, and if she had it her way she still would be. She was growing stronger; she could feel her magic growing stronger each day as her bruises healed and scars faded. This room was her prison. She found herself switching off the lights and closing the thick velvet curtains. She wanted to be back in the dark cell along with her friends, the fairies. There had been moments when she thought she was back in the Burrow, only to be brought back to life with harsh reality as a house-elf popped into the room with her meals, only to pop out again without a word. On those days she laughed, laughed until she cried, then she would weep until all her tears were gone as she reminded herself that she was alone and no one would save her from her abysmal existence.

Of course, if she was being honest with herself, she had nothing against Narcissa Malfoy, who had been kind and friendly to her and had healed the pain of her wounds. But Narcissa couldn't stop her from hurting on the inside. The pain that ripped through Ginny's heart was unbearable as she thought about her family dying at the hands of the Death Eaters, possibly Narcissa's own husband and son. The regal woman tried to comfort Ginny as best she could, but it wasn't the same as having a close friend of her own. Narcissa was distant at times, not warm and fresh with a smile like Luna, Colin, or Hermione. The older woman was amusing but didn't have the humorous wit of Fred and George. She was comforting, but her hugs didn't give the same reassurance as those of Molly or Arthur Weasley. Narcissa couldn't protect the way Ginny's brothers would: Bill, who was quick with a wand and could jinx you in a second, Charlie, who would threaten to feed you to one of his dragons, and Ron…well, Ron would throw punches first and ask questions later. Ginny smiled fondly at the memory of her brothers; they had always been there for her, through thick and thin.

So many great witches and wizards were now dead at the hands of a monster for standing up for what they believed in. But really, their deaths were all for nothing. Ginny, a survivor, had nothing to show for her pride or her passion for her opinions. Her mistakes had cost her the lives for her closest friends and people who had trusted her to help make a difference. All she had now was the haunting echoes of their screams of agony embedded in her mind. Shaking her head, she went back to her bed and snuggled into the covers. She needed to go back to sleep, to pretend nothing had ever happened; and hopefully, this time, she wouldn't wake up.

* * *

In the bright conservatory on the other side of Malfoy Manor Narcissa sat sipping lemon tea and carefully watched her husband, Lucius, who sat across from her reading the Sunday _Prophet_; he was still sulking about the incident the day before. Clearing her throat slightly, she placed her teacup and saucer on the patterned table coaster; she hated marks on her coffee tables.

"Have you spoken to Draco yet?" she enquired lightly, watching as her husband forcefully turned the page and replied with a grunt. She knew instantly that the answer was an obvious no.

"You're going to have to talk to him sooner or later, Lucius." Narcissa sighed. She knew he would be in a terrible mood for the rest of the week if he didn't speak to Draco.

Ruffling his paper with more force than necessary, Lucius turned another page, completely ignoring his wife.

"That poor woman! Whilst I am extremely thankful Draco saved he,r I still don't understand why," Narcissa persisted, frowning when Lucius rolled his eyes. "Has he spoken to you about it? Considering Draco's actions lately, maybe it's too much for him; he hasn't been the same since his promotion—he's been extremely distant. Did you know he told Priscilla Zabini to bugger off the other day when she asked him how he was faring? Not like Draco at all... Lucius? Lucius, are you even listening to me?"

Throwing his paper down, the eldest Malfoy glared at his wife. Picking up his cup and gulping down the rest of his tea, he slammed the teacup down forcefully on the table.

"Use the coaster!" Narcissa snapped.

Sighing with frustration, he put his cup on the coaster next to it. "Can you not leave me in peace, woman? Don't answer that!" he snapped when Narcissa opened her mouth to reply. "I will not talk to Draco until he apologizes to me. I have also ordered the house-elves to ignore all of his demands until he decides to ask for my forgiveness."

"There are over two hundred rooms in the manor, Lucius. If you want peace, use one of them! Furthermore, I think you're being very childish and should grow up!" Her voice grew ever more high-pitched as she went, which should have warned Lucius of her impending anger.

"How am _I_ being childish?" demanded Lucius.

"Oh, just bugger off," Narcissa grumbled in an extremely unladylike manner. She turned her head to look out of the window to watch as the house-elves tended to her rose garden.

Growling to himself, Lucius rose from the chair. He paced around the light and airy conservatory, then sighed and faced his wife once more. "Draco seems to have some sort of fascination with the Weasley girl. I don't understand any of his reasoning at the moment, it all seems to stem from their time together at school, but I think we need to give him some space." Lucius gave Narcissa a pointed look, which she choose to ignore. "Until then, I need you to make sure Weasley is kept safe. Draco is not exactly stable at the moment, and his insistent disrespect towards the Dark Lord is a cause for concern."

A sudden sharp pain shot through his left arm. Pulling up his sleeve, he saw that the Dark Mark was gleaming pure black against his skin. Narcissa looked at the Mark; it made her shiver to see it like that, so dark and threatening. It made the situation too real—made her remember that a monster was dictating her family's actions.

Lucius hissed in pain and pulled his sleeve back over the Mark. He gestured for his wife to stand up. "We both need to go." Lucius placed one hand on her waist and used the other to hold his wand. Placing a tender kiss on her lips, he Apparated them both to The Hall, where Voldemort awaited their arrival.

* * *

Draco stared in disgust at the creature before him. The thing was babbling on about something he wasn't happy with, as usual. Heaving a sigh, Draco looked around the room, not bothering to pay any attention to Voldemort. The "Inner Circle" had been the only ones summoned tonight, meaning this was important but top-secret information Voldemort deemed worthy of their ears only. Quite frankly, Draco really couldn't give a shit. He glanced at his mother, who was staring at her fingernails and holding his father's hand. Lucius, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to fall asleep, like Crabbe Senior next to him, his big head lolling to one side. Bellatrix was staring at her master, entranced with every word he said; she was stroking her Dark Mark in a strange, obsessive movement. It was obvious to everyone in the room that Bellatrix was slowly growing more and more insane since the death of her husband.

Draco stared straight ahead at his best friend, Blaise Zabini, who was leaning against a wall and twirling his wand about. Catching his eye, Draco smirked at his fellow mercenary, who grinned and winked back at him. Blaise's playful nature was extremely different from Draco's unfeeling one. Although he could remember a time when they had bantered and joked about things, it had been a long time since Draco had joined in.

Frowning, Draco stared at Voldemort. How was it that he could not feel anything? He just felt cold, distant, and empty; he seemed to take intense pleasure only from torturing his victims or watching them die. The only other time he felt anything was when he held _her_, the woman who plagued his dreams. Close friends and family kept telling him he was acting differently; his female partners told him he was an unfeeling bastard as he threw them out of his room. He thought back to when it had all started to happen. During the few months before Voldemort had appointed him as Head Mercenary, Draco had felt power radiating from him as he tortured his victims. He liked to play before he ended their miserable lives; it was the only time he felt intense satisfaction. It was almost like something snapped inside him and his control over his emotions was no longer needed; he was no longer the young man following his Dark Lord but a lethal instrument designed to kill with unfeeling resolve.

Voldemort hissed Draco's name, causing him to finally pay attention to his surroundings. The other Death Eaters stood up straight and also started to pay attention to what was going on as Voldemort stopped his speech about rebellious wizards and the younger, power-hungry recruits.

"Draco, you are a fine example of what I expect from my mercenaries," Voldemort hissed. He took out his wand, his red, snakelike eyes darting to each person in the room, refusing to meet eye contact with the mercenary in front of him. "Draco here has been a loyal supporter for many years and is also a part of one of my many successful experiments."

Draco stayed silent and stared at Voldemort with sudden intensity. Bellatrix let out a husky laugh and his mother let out a strangled cry. Loud murmurs of excitement and worry floated around the room. Voldemort raised a hand and motioned to Wormtail. As he spoke quietly to the jittery little man, Voldemort kept his eyes on Draco's wand, which was still held loosely in his right hand. Everyone watched in silence as Wormtail ran out the side door of the chamber, only to return a minute later with a silver box in his hands. Voldemort took the box from Wormtail and conjured a table to set it upon.

"Have you heard of an old warlock named Atrox Pertinax?" When Draco shook his head, Voldemort continued. "No? He was known as a cruel, unpleasant man, tainted by his enjoyment of others' horror, but he fell in love with a young widow. She was still grieving for her dead husband when Atrox asked her to marry him, and she declined. Years and years passed; she never recovered from her grief and continued to decline all of Atrox's pleas to marry him.

"Frustrated, Atrox concocted a special potion in his desperation to marry her. He wanted her to stop feeling anguish over her late husband's death. When he had perfected the potion he invited her for a meal and slipped the potion into her glass of wine. The woman turned from a grieving widow to an unfeeling shell, unable to feel either emotions or pain. The potion is called Contrecto Nusquam Torpeo, meaning to feel nothing but numbness. No one has ever recovered from it, although there are myths about how one can regain one's emotions."

Voldemort finished his story and opened the box to reveal a small glass bottle with a glowing silver liquid inside. Draco looked at the vial, then back at Voldemort.

"Why did you do this to me?" Draco asked, his eyes cold and blank.

Voldemort twitched slightly. "Your emotions were your weakness. I could not appoint you as my Head Mercenary if you continued to feel remorse every time you carried out one of my orders. I plan to give this to each of my most loyal supporters. You should be thanking me; it is an honour in itself to be given such a gift," Voldemort insisted.

Draco bowed low. "Then I thank you, my lord."

Draco turned on his heel, and as he proceeded to walk out the room he made a silent vow to kill Lord Voldemort.

* * *

A/N - Sorry for the delay folks, I went travelling but now I'm back :) Hope you enjoyed it, and please review. x


	5. Chapter 5

Draco stood against the bar and swallowed another shot of whisky, a Muggle drink but it was worth it to taste as the potent malt stung the back of his throat. If his father were here, he would have scolded Draco for gulping down such a good whisky so quickly; but Draco didn't like to savour his drink, especially when he just wanted to get drunk.

He was currently in one of his best friend's usual haunts, a dirty, scabby pub located in Knockturn Alley. The alcohol was reasonably priced and safe enough to drink if you conjured up your own glass. Most of the regulars were dodgy folk who made even the darkest of Death Eaters wary.

The infamous Blaise Zabini should have arrived ten minutes ago.

If Draco could have felt emotion, his could possibly have been labelled as brooding. But then again, Malfoys didn't brood. The meeting with Voldemort kept replaying in Draco's mind. He was poisoned, unable to feel emotion towards anyone. No wonder he was an extremely good murderer, a ruthless assassin. The sound of familiar female laughter tinkled somewhere in the background, making him look round.

Draco eyed the young barmaid as she collected glasses from a nearby table. She laughed at something one of the punters had said and gave a saucy wink when the grubby man grabbed her behind. Instead of being offended, she nudged his hand and easily moved away from his persistent advances, neither making him angry nor leading him on; Sylvie was a pro at her job.

Sylvie had arrived in Britain two years ago, after her parents died fighting in a battle when Voldemort set his sights on France. The poor young French girl spoke very little English and didn't have a Knut to her name. Draco had found her huddled up in a ragged blanket in Diagon Alley, covered in blood and mud, during a routine raid. He felt sorry for her at the time and gave her enough money for new clothes and a place to stay. Sylvie found herself a good enough job in Knockturn Alley as a barmaid in Jesper's Bar, and Jesper himself let her rent the small flat above it for half the going rate.

She was a favourite amongst the younger Death Eaters due to her dazzling beauty and lusty nature. Tonight her long golden hair was piled up on her head, with messy curls framing her face. She placed makeup charms on her eyes; smoky shadow hinted at a non-existent mysterious lifestyle, and her dark red lips accentuated her permanent pout, making her look even more kissable. Her outfit left nothing to the imagination. A short red dress with black lace trim that just touched her knees flashed an indecent amount of flesh with every step she took. She made her way towards Draco, licking her lips slightly. Draco had always been her favourite lover; even since he'd become cold and distant, he still managed to make her tingle in all the right places.

Sylvie greeted Draco with a low murmur of his name, rolling the R off her tongue in a way that used to make him go weak at the knees. He hardly tried to stamp down thoughts of them going upstairs for a quickie; it had been too damn long and he was about ready to burst. But he couldn't experience the same power and exhilaration of a release like he used to, and it was all thanks to Lord-Bloody-Voldemort.

Sylvie smiled and leant against him so her breasts were pressed slightly against his chest. Trying not to look at her breasts, which were almost spilling out of her tight bodice, he moved away from her so they were no longer touching.

"Sylvie. I'm not here for that." Draco poured himself another shot and drank it quickly, not bothering to look at the young witch.

"You 'ave never turned me down beefore," she pouted, her lower lip jutting out slightly. Her English was improving vastly but still held an exotic French lilt. This was exactly the reason he hadn't wanted to come here today; Sylvie always went off in a huff when she didn't get her way, and it was easier to stay in her good books.

"I found the woman I need. And it isn't you," He said coldly as he reached for the bottle of whisky once more.

Sylvie glared at him, stamped her foot, and crossed her arms. "We 'ave sometheeng special. I can make you 'appy! Forget zis uzzer weetch."

"Sylvie, I don't want you. It ends now, so don't bother me any more. You make every other bloody Death Eater in here just as happy as you made me, so stop blowing this whole thing out of proportion," Draco said before downing another shot. Zabini should have been here half an hour ago, and he certainly couldn't be bothered with this stroppy little French witch twittering in his ear all night.

Draco didn't feel a thing as he watched the blonde witch storm off in a huff to the other side of the bar. He ignored her as she promptly began to flirt with a low-ranked Death Eater Draco recognized as a guard from Diagon Alley. He and Sylvie were—well, had been—lovers. He had no doubt that Sylvie had skills in the bedroom department; it used to make him uneasy that she was also well known by other people for her bedroom acrobatics, but now it was hardly worth thinking about, when she meant nothing to him.

The door to the bar opened to reveal a ruffled-looking Blaise Zabini. He was dressed in the full Death Eater uniform: jet-black robes and a silver mask that was perched carelessly on top of his head. He smiled at Draco and conjured up his own shot glass.

"Where have you been?" Draco demanded as he watched Blaise drink from the bottle instead of pouring it into the glass.

"Your aunt has gone and seriously fucked things up for us." Blaise offered the bottle to Draco, who declined. "Your sweet Auntie Bella decided she wanted some of that mega potion Voldemort is offering and wanted some serious action and tagged along with me and the rest of the mercenary team to kill Yogolvask's army and capture his alchemist for reasons Voldemort doesn't fucking want to share with us—you know, the mission you told him to shove up his arse about a month or so ago?"

Draco nodded. "He obviously didn't take my words seriously. So what did Bella do this time?"

"Went off on a crazed killing spree and killed the precious alchemist. Voldemort was furious when we came back empty-handed. Put her through the Cruciatus for hours and made us watch. Sick bastard; I think he was getting turned on by it. Actually, I think Bella was getting turned on too," said Blaise, and he shuddered at the thought.

Draco screwed up his face in disgust. "Lovely," he remarked, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm.

"Anyway, this alchemist we were supposed to be saving seemingly knew the cure to everything and even knew how to make you all immortal, which is what His Highness of All Things Dark wanted, obviously. We've got a shitload of boxes filled with parchment and books that we retrieved from his mangy little cottage, which he wants us to go through since we fucked up big-time courtesy of Bellatrix The Strange. Seriously, I don't get why I have to be punished for your insane relative's fuck-ups, but then again, I don't know what goes on in that bloke's head."

Blaise studied his best friend's face closely, looking for the barest hint of emotion, just a flicker of something, anything; but there was nothing. His friend's expression was like stone, and Blaise would have bet all his gold—which was a lot of gold—that Draco's insides were like ice.

Disappointed by Draco's lack of reaction, Blaise cast his eyes across the small bar. He spotted Sylvie flirting with some guy and noticed her eyes flickering over to Draco, begging him to respond and hoping to get him to erupt in a fit of jealous rage. However, that was never going to happen, considering the man didn't feel anything.

"Come on; let's get out of this place. It's too stuffy in here." Blaise stood up and waited by the door while Draco shrugged, picked up his bottle of whiskey, and exited the pub with a swirl of his black robes.

Ginny stared in shock at Narcissa's usually spotless conservatory, which was now full of boxes filled with sheets and sheets of parchment, dusty old tomes, and a strange set of diagrams depicting men in extreme pain. She slowly shuffled her way round the boxes, being careful not to knock over a particularly precarious mound of books, to where she heard the sound of ripping parchment.

What Ginny found was a terribly distraught Narcissa Malfoy, furiously reading and scrambling through the mess, obviously in search of something important. The older woman was crying and looked so frustrated that Ginny was worried she'd pull her own hair out, and so angry her face was slowly turning a deep shade of pink.

Narcissa's glorious blonde waterfall of hair was frizzy and pulled up in a scraggly-looking bun. Her immaculate dresses and jewellery were gone and instead she wore a pair of running trousers and what looked like a blue dress shirt belonging to her husband. Narcissa Malfoy was a mess, and for once she actually made Ginny feel a bit overdressed in her simple pair of wide-leg jeans and deep purple sweater.

"Narcissa? What's going on?" Ginny took a tentative step closer to the hysterical older witch.

Narcissa looked up with an expression that made the red-headed witch draw back slightly. Narcissa's eyes were red and puffy and she had a defeated and lost look so fierce that it made Ginny want to grab hold of her and never let go.

"He's ruined my son, my beautiful Draco," Narcissa whispered, her voice shaking with unshed tears.

"Who's ruined Draco? What's wrong with him?" Ginny asked gently as she moved a box and sat down on the floor next to Narcissa.

Azure blue eyes locked onto Ginny's chocolate brown ones, and Ginny watched as a small tear made a track down the older witch's soft pink cheek.

"Voldemort poisoned Draco. Now my only son is unable to feel anything. He can not even feel love for his own mother. It breaks my heart to see him like this, a shell of who he once was. We've always been close; every day he would make the effort to see me, or at least send an owl, just to remind me that he loved me. He was my little boy." Narcissa trailed off, a small smile gracing her face as she looked back at some long-ago memory. Then she glanced around the room, taking in all the boxes, and once again looked defeated.

"Somewhere in one of these boxes is a cure for my son. I will find it."

Ginny looked helplessly at all the pieces of parchment and old tomes; It would take one person months to read through all this by themselves. "Don't worry, Narcissa. I'll help you." Ginny placed a reassuring hand on the blonde woman's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze.

"Excellent! Do you hear that, Tin Man? We're going to find you a heart with the help of some gorgeous witches." Blaise Zabini stood in the doorway rubbing his hands together, looking like he was ready for business. He gave a cheeky smile to Mrs Malfoy and a wink to Ginny, who promptly blushed. Blaise moved away from the doorway to reveal Draco, who was dressed head to toe in black and was holding an almost empty bottle of whisky. Ginny watched as a lock of blond hair fell into those deep pools of mercury, making her want to brush it aside and kiss those lips in what she realized was the same reaction she'd had on the night of her capture. Realizing she had been staring for a bit longer than necessary, she quickly averted her gaze to the closest box and started to read the notes it held.

Narcissa gave a half-smile at Blaise's antics. She was extremely grateful for his attitude towards the whole situation. He had always been able to see the funny side of things; even in a serious matter such as this, he always resorted to friendly teasing. She watched as the dark-haired wizard began to sift through the scraps of parchment, making more noise than necessary, which she noticed was causing Draco to roll his eyes.

Blaise and Draco had been friends since they were three years old, running about with training wands, hitting each other and turning each other's hair blue with uncontrollable magic. So peaceful, and oblivious to what would be expected of them in the future. Now they were ruthless killers under the control of the Dark Lord.

Narcissa glanced over at her son, who sat motionless in the armchair closest to Ginny. She noticed that his eyes were locked on the voluptuous redhead's every movement.

Draco's obsession with Ginny was the reason the little witch was being made to stay with them. Narcissa's husband had informed her of Draco's confession, and she was intrigued as to why this particular woman had managed to capture her son's attention for reasons unknown to her. She studied her son closely; his eyes were slightly narrowed with something akin to longing.

Realization hit Narcissa with an astounding rush. He could feel emotion towards Ginevra. If her logic was right, then Ginny Weasley was the answer to her prayers. Quietly excusing herself from the conservatory, she made her way out into the hall.

Her heels clicked hard against the marble flooring as she made her way through the corridors. Narcissa was excited about her discovery and chastised herself for not noticing sooner. She felt a new sense of hope wash over her as she entered her bedchamber to make herself more presentable for her husband. Shocked by her own appearance, she hastily performed makeup charms and tweaked her hair until it was back to the usual golden sleekness for which she was renowned. Ever since they were married Narcissa always liked to look her best for her husband. She would never approach him in a dishevelled state, as the previous Lady Malfoy had liked to remind her that she had married above her, and that whilst the Black Family were purebloods, they were also known for being slightly unhinged and power-hungry.

As she turned the corner, her long hunter-green dress blew out behind her, caressing the floor as she walked. Long, medieval-style floating dresses were the most common fashion for women in pure-blood society. A woman with a social standing as high as Narcissa Malfoy's was expected to wear the traditional dress, look immaculate, arrange magnificent balls, and give money to charity. And Narcissa did all of this with such ease that most women didn't dare compete with her.

Now she gave a sharp knock on the dark wooden door of Lucius' study and waited patiently for him to answer. She knocked again, harder, for good measure, but after a minute there was still no reply. Huffing slightly at the lack of response, she pushed firmly on the door handle and let herself into the study without permission. She didn't give a damn if Lucius wanted to be alone or not—besides, he would definitely be interested to hear her new-found information. Narcissa frowned at the scene before her.

The study was a handsome room with a large walnut desk situated in front of the window; behind the desk, facing the door, was a luxurious forest-green leather chair, which was uncharacteristically empty. The light that should have been shining brightly through the large wall-to-ceiling windows seeped feebly through the dark, heavy velvet curtains. Narcissa walked up to the imposing desk and sifted through the papers that were scattered haphazardly all over it. They were some of the alchemists' notes that she hadn't seen. Narcissa smiled. Lucius had told her it was Draco's mess and he could clear it up himself. Of course, her husband was still sore about the whole duelling incident; his order to the house-elves to not serve Draco, or Little Master as he was dubbed by the small creatures, still stood. But Lucius was obviously worried for their son. Narcissa was relieved. It would have broken her heart if she'd had to endure losing their son alone.

A little grunt sounded behind her, which gave way to a large snore. Turning around, she spotted her husband curled up on the black sofa in the corner of the room, one hand gripping a piece of parchment so tightly that Narcissa almost ripped it to shreds as she tried to wriggle it out of his grasp. She quickly unravelled the paper and read the small, curvaceous script.

_Contrecto Nusquam Torpeo_

_Contrecto Nusquam Torpe, is a strong numbing potion. When used externally the potion will numb the area it touches, which is useful for areas around open wounds or sores as long as it does not touch blood. When the cold silver potion mixes with warm blood it will freeze the emotions of the Being to whom it was served. These effects are non-reversible unless the Being should ever find his or her soul-mate. The likeliness of one finding one's soul-mate is extremely rare as that person can live in a different era altogether. If one does find his or her soul-mate, then a catalyst is formed as the natural heat from the bonding between soul-mates thaws out the blood. In order for the catalyst to occur, both Beings involved must accept the bond. _

Narcissa smiled down at her sleeping husband and gave him a little shake to waken him. She watched as he groggily opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, and then she sat down on the couch next to him.

"I think you have found the cure for Draco. I also think there's a possibility that he can already feel a certain amount of emotion—but only for Miss Weasley." Narcissa watched her husband register the news with sincere surprise. Lucius glanced at the small scrap of parchment in her hand, then back up to her face.

"His soul-mate?" he enquired, already knowing the answer.

The smile on Narcissa's face brightened up the whole room and made her look ten years younger. "I think that is why he feels such a connection to her. He can only feel anything when he is in her company. I noticed a change in him this morning in the conservatory when Ginny and he were in the same room. I just need to get Ginevra to trust him."

The determination in her voice made it impossible for Lucius to refuse. "That won't be easy. She is growing stronger by the day and she is getting restless. I think she may try to leave."

"Well, then, I suggest you stop sulking and go have a word with your son while I try to convince Ginevra she would be better off staying," Narcissa said tartly, and she glided out the door of his study, a woman on a mission.

* * *

a/n - Again, I am sorry for the delay. I will try and get things posted faster in future. Please review. Thanks xx


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